Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [14]
“I’m sorry if that sounded bitchy,” Claire said, turning toward her. “It’s just … my mother and everything … You understand.”
“Of course, of course.”
“I’m so glad you came,” Claire said. “Honestly. It means a lot to me.”
Something about this irritated Alison. Perhaps it was the earnest tone, at once overly formal and grandiose, the celebrity thanking her audience for its support. Perhaps it was bigger than that: Claire’s appropriation of an inheritance of stories and memories on which both of them had claims—an archive of secrets, a library of shared experiences. Their childhood together was Claire’s childhood now, defined by her interpretation.
Alison took the elevator down to the lobby alone. Stepping outside, she gazed at the street in front of her, glistening like an oily river. The air smelled, improbably, of damp soil. Alison fumbled for her keys, feeling around in her bag for the smooth silver Tiffany’s ring Charlie had given her for her birthday (the little blue box had held such promise, and then it held … a key ring). As she opened the car door and slipped into the driver’s seat, Alison realized that she hadn’t missed Charlie, the way she’d expected to, at the party. Instead she’d felt a small thrill at being alone in the city—even as her mood turned cloudy. Being alone and anonymous might be preferable, she thought, to being alone and observed—which was how she felt most days in the fishbowl of Rockwell. She started the car. As she drove north on East End Avenue, the multicolored lights of the city refracted through the raindrops on her windshield.
Chapter Five
When the phone rang, Charlie was in a deep sleep. It took a moment for him to realize that the ringing was not inside his head, somewhere in his dream, and then, all at once, his brain collected itself in a rush—late night—Alison gone—and he lunged for the telephone, fully awake. He heard her voice and could tell right away that something terrible had happened. Alison was, by nature, calm. Charlie had seen her break down only twice: the day her father had a heart attack, and the time Annie, as a toddler, got lost in a mall.
Alison wasn’t crying, but there was a hysterical undercurrent in her voice, as if on the other end of the line someone were holding a gun to her head and she wasn’t supposed to let Charlie know. As she spoke, Charlie cradled the phone on one shoulder and pulled a pair of khakis over his boxers, grabbed two random socks out of the laundry basket and put them on, fished his sneakers out from under the bed. As he yanked an old Izod over his head he realized that she was asking him a question.
“What?” he said.
“Jesus, are you listening?” Alison breathed. “I asked if you can come right away.”
“Sorry, I’m getting dressed,” he said. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
Their next-door neighbor, Robin, didn’t hesitate when Charlie called and told her there’d been an accident and the car was totaled, and asked if she could come over and stay with the kids. The only thing she wanted to know was whether Alison was all right. He said she was. Then he remembered that Alison had said she had hurt her wrist, and he told Robin that, too, thinking it might mitigate the inconvenience if she knew it was serious. He didn’t say anything about the boy.
The streets of Rockwell were quiet and wet and dramatically lit, like a stage set. Driving like this, in a rush of adrenaline in the still of the night, felt strangely familiar, and after a moment he realized why: Charlie and Alison had taken predawn trips to the hospital for the births of both of their children. Alison used to joke that she was physically incapable of going into labor unless she was in a deep sleep; Charlie joked that the kids were considerate to give them a taste of the nocturnal schedule they’d be keeping. How ironic, he thought, that his associations were with hope, with promise, and now. …
He felt a great weight descend on him; he almost couldn’t breathe. She might have been killed—it was impossible to